


The Prince who was Promised

by Sera_dy_Relandrant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_dy_Relandrant/pseuds/Sera_dy_Relandrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I lost my first boy, a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter too, tried to beat the fever that took him. The boy looked just like him. Such a little thing. A bird without feathers."</p><p>What if Cersei's first son had survived? What if Melisandre thought he was the Chosen One? What if Viserys was assassinated before he could complete the Dothraki alliance and Daenerys was never married to Drogo? Slight Harry Potter undertones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prince with Emerald Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> "I lost my first boy, a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter too, tried to beat the fever that took him. Forgive me. It's the last thing you need to hear right now. It was years ago. Robert was crazed, beat his hands bloody on the wall, all the things men do to show you how much they care. The boy looked just like him. Such a little thing. A bird without feathers. They came to take his body away and Robert held me. I screamed and I battled, but he held me. That little bundle. They took him away and I never saw him again. Never have visited the crypt, never. I pray to the mother every morning and night that she return your child to you. Perhaps this time she'll listen."
> 
> \- The Kingsroad
> 
> "I have given suck, and know  
> How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:  
> I would, while it was smiling in my face,  
> Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,  
> And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you  
> Have done to this."
> 
> \- Macbeth

It was the hour of evensong. The Sunset Sea was gilded in the colors of House Lannister, crimson and gold. The western hills were aflame, scarlet and vermillion in the falling light, the sky above them was a swirl of copper and rose. On the eastern harbor, the moored ships and skiffs sailing home were like children's toys, carved of jet-black wood. Stars blossomed over them, jeweled flowers in a field the soft, lush purple of a king's robe.

The Prince stood in the stone gallery and listened to the roar of the incoming tide as the sea kissed the shore.

"It sounds like a lion," his little brother said solemnly. "A hungry lion."

So it did, Prince Harrold of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister thought. "Do you like it?"

Tommen was all of nine, a sweet child but a timid one. He shook his head. "It frightens me," he confessed.

Harry laughed and ruffled his brother's curly head. "Don't let Mother hear that. We're supposed to be lions."

"No we're not," Tommen said. "That's Mother. We're supposed to be stags like Father."

Quartered on his doublet, Harry wore the crowned stag of House Baratheon as well as the lion of House Lannister. Where a lesser woman would have deferred to her lord husband's line, his lady mother, proud as she was, had raised her children to think of her house as equal to their father's. _Your father might tell you that it was his warhammer that won you your birthright,_ she liked to say, _but make no mistake it was my father's gold and cunning that won the war at the last moment. But for Tywin Lannister, your father would be but an usurper and no true king._

He liked to think of himself as his father's heir, the crowned stag. But he also liked to think of himself as his mother's son, a lion brave and proud and fierce.

"Well, don't let Mother hear that either," Harry said absently. The stone ledge was warm to the touch, mellow pink and buttery gold in the light. Something about the richly-tinted sky reminded him of the red priestess, the Lady Melisandre. _Fire and blood,_ he thought, thinking of her scarlet eyes and the ember that burned hot and fierce in the white hollow of her throat.

She was silk and velvet, a soft voice flavored with the rich accents of the east and a waterfall of bright hair that smelt of roses.

  
"Where is Mother?" he asked Tommen.

"With Uncle Jaime, I guess," Tommen said, shrugging. He pouted a little and said plaintively, "I've been left alone all day long. Myrcella's been playing at cyvasse with her friends and she said she didn't want a little baby like me bothering her, Mother and Uncle Jaime have been away, Uncle Tyrion's been reading and you, where have you been, Harry?"

Harry colored and looked away. "Busy," he said gruffly. "But you still had Joff, Tommen."

Tommen screwed up his face like a gargoyle. "He made me go to the menagerie with his dog," he said sulkily. "He said it would toughen me up and then he said he'd fed me to the lions. He even touched them through the bars of the cage, even when the keeper swore he'd lose a hand. And then I was so scared, I thought he might actually open the cage, so I run and then I had to hide from him all day long." His face was full of hurt.

It was true. Harry had found his youngest brother curled up under a windowseat in the gallery and it was only after he'd sworn to protect his brother from his other brother that Tommen had come out. He sighed. "Joffrey shouldn't have done that," he said patiently. "But you should be braver, Tommen. You're a prince of the blood and one day you'll have to be a knight. Knights must be strong and brave."

"Then I won't be a knight," Tommen said decisively. "I'll be a maester and read all day like Uncle Tyrion. Or I'll be a septon and eat all day long like the High Septon." He seemed to like the idea.

"Grandfather Tywin should be pleased to hear that," Harry said, choking back a laugh. "It's bad enough that Uncle Tyrion can't-"

"You've been with a girl," Tommen said suddenly. He grinned up at his eldest brother. "That's why you're blushing."

"I have-" Harry started to say and then stopped. He was four-and-ten, almost a man grown really. It would not hurt to remind his brother of the fact. He puffed out his chest a little. "And if I have, Tommen? Do you want to go tattling to Mother?"

"She won't care," Tommen said. "She'll just say you've turned out like Father, is all." He waggled his eyebrows. "Your girl, was she pretty?"

"As beautiful as a sunset," Harry said, remembering her. The wind ruffled his hair, jet black like his father's. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Come, you should be dressing for the feast now. Grandfather won't send us off without something truly grand." It was their last day at Casterly Rock. On the morrow they would take the Kingsroad until they met up with Father's retinue. From thence it was north to Winterfell, to see Father's old friend, Lord Stark.

 _And your queen,_ he thought. Lady Melisandre had warned him of that. Lord Stark had two daughters, fair young maids of an age with him. _Every king must have a queen,_ she had said, even as she cupped his cheek. She had tasted of something sharp and queerly bitter, but her lips were soft and as red as cherries.

"I'll eat like a boar," Tommen avowed.

Harry laughed and patted his little brother's plump stomach. "How much more of a ball do you want to look like? It's no wonder Joff's always picking on you, you're too easy not to, Tommen."

"Joff picks on everyone," Tommen said sullenly. "He's Mother's favorite - she lets him do anything he pleases."

"Mother loves all of us the same," Harry said, though he knew it for a lie. Joffrey, who looked so like Uncle Jaime, was her favorite and then sweet Myrcella and little Tommen. He was the least loved of her cubs, of late whenever she looked at him he could see the distaste in her face.

He was the only one of the royal children who took after their father, and for that, he thought, she could not forgive him.

 _Small wonder,_ he thought, remembering how his father would shame her, with his whores and byblows. He had struck her, more than once, and in his drunken rages he was cruel to her. _I'm not like him,_ he always wanted to tell her. He wanted to make her beautiful green eyes light up when she saw him, to smile and laugh, to ruffle his hair and kiss his cheek as she did his younger brothers and sister. He wanted his mother to love him.

* * *

The emeralds at her throat glowed like lion's eyes.

The Queen sat at her window, with but one candle on the ledge. The shadows played queer tricks on her face, cutting lines that were not there on her smooth white skin, writhing and twisting so that her lovely features were twisted into something cruel and monstrous. Her hair was piled high and on her head there was a crown of lacy spun gold and emeralds, but her back was bared, from shoulder to hip.

"Lace me up," she bid her brother.

With a cat's grace, he rose from her bed to comply. He trailed slow kisses down her back as he hooked the clasps, she could feel the heat of his lips through the velvet and she yearned for nothing but to give in to his touch. But she had not been Queen of the Seven Kingdoms for fifteen years by giving in to all her impulses, so she forbore and sat, cold and correct, while he bent to his work.

"What are you looking at, sister?" he asked her lazily. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered out through the window. She was not looking up at the burnt wilderness of the sky at sundown, but down at the stone gallery where her boys stood.

"I should have had him killed when he was a babe," she had mechanically.

"You should have," he agreed. "The tears were there, sweet and clear as springwater. I brought you them myself, you could have tipped it into his milk and none would have been the wiser. Children die of sickness all the time. Pycelle is your creature, he would have sworn that the boy died of fever. A mother's mercy, a mother's madness I suppose that stopped your hand - women, birthing does something to your heads."

She shook her head. "I would have gone through with it," she said, her voice hard. "I had felt Joffrey quicken in my womb that day, your seed. With Robert's son born before him, he would never have been king. I was ready but-"

"But?" he prompted, when she said nothing.

"He had my eyes." Her voice was curiously calm, almost indifferent really. "He opened his eyes, just as I was about to do it, and he smiled at me. Green eyes, just like yours and mine, for all that he was the very image of his father. I was younger then, and more foolish and he was my firstborn after all. I could not do it." She rose. "He was an innocent babe, mine own sweet son, but he is four-and-ten now. He has served his purpose."

Jaime arched an eyebrow. "Oh? What purpose was that?"

"He looks like his father," she said quietly. "He is our decoy. Joff and Myrcella and Tommen, they all look too much like you. But Harrold is Robert's, even a man half-blind could see that. Such a noble lad. But noble lads..." she sighed, "...they can die. In the melee, in pitched battle, in the hunt... it is so very sad. Their mothers grow crazed with grief, their fathers rage against the gods but life carries on. And Harrold has two brothers to inherit."

Her brother was looking at her with a queer mixture of amusement and respect in his eyes. "I pray I never cross you, sweet sister," he avowed, kissing her. "You are terrible when roused."

 _I am a lioness of the Rock,_ she thought. _And all I do, I do for my cubs._ She had borne Harrold in blood and pain, but she never thought of him as _hers_ , Robert's features were stamped too well on his face. _Don't think of him as yours, it will only make it harder. Think of him as a tool, as Father says, there is a task for every tool and a tool for every task. You must do what you must with what you were given. For your children._

"Any mother would do the same to protect her children," Cersei said. She offered her arm to her brother. "Come. It is time you dressed for supper."

* * *

He was waiting for her.

"You should not be here," she chastised him. Mildly though, he was but a boy with a boy's quickness to take insult.

He had been sitting on her table, swinging his long legs, but he rose when she entered. "Forgive me," he said, very contrite and humble. "I wanted to see you again. I knew I would not be able to look at you at the feast and so I thought..."

She sighed. "As long as you were not seen."

It would not look well for the young prince to be seen entering the red priestess's chamber. Of course she could weather the waves of scandal, it was naught to her what lesser men whispered of her doings. Already they called her the Scarlet Woman and made mock of her, calling her a false priestess just as they called Thoros of Myr a false priest. Thoros was the King's companion in drinking and wenching and they said she was their pet whore, a witch who used queer eastern spells and powders and could drive men mad with lust and leave them withered as husk when she was done with them. She did not care what they said, so long as they did not suspect her.

But the boy... Lord Stark would look askance at the merest hint of debauchery and to lie with a priestess, a woman sworn to the red god of the east, well. The boy would need to wed one of his daughters in time, better that she come to his bed loyal and loving. He would need a strong queen by his side when the time came.

"Where were you?" he asked her curiously. "I haven't seen you since we last parted."

"You must not have been looking in the right places then," she told him. "I was gathering herbs." Cloves and basil and caraway to brew a love philtre so strong it could reduce hardened men to water, belladonna called the enchanter's nightshade for good reason, cowbane to kill, nettle and mugwort to cure.

She set aside her cloak and began to arrange the contents of the sachets she had taken with her in her chest of powders. Powders to turn fire green or blue or silver, powders to make a flame roar and hiss and leap up higher than a man is tall, powders to make smoke. A smoke for truth, a smoke for lust, a smoke for fear, and the thick black smoke that could kill a man outright. She had replenished the carved chest she had brought from across the narrow sea in the westernlands, she would not need more for a long time.

 _All for the best,_ she thought. _We might need to linger in the North and it is a hard, barren land._ She wondered how she would like it up there, the North where her prince would meet his fate. _Not a prince,_ she thought. _He will be a king then, R'hllor's instrument. Not a boy but a man._

He was looking at her, taut with a boy's lust. "Will you look into the fire before supper?" he asked her.

She had thought to, but his voice alerted her. "If it please you, I will not," she told him, making her voice pleasant. She would need to work carefully on him, he was a boy, easy to work upon, but boys were notoriously fickle. For now, she seemed fair to him but who could tell when his fancy would turn to a maiden, lush and ripe for the picking?

He needed no second urging. He was upon her before she could slip out of her gown, his mouth hungry and demanding on hers. _Truly his father's son,_ she thought. She stroked his dark hair as he mounted her upon the table, filling her mind with thoughts of salt and smoke and snow. When he was done, he rolled over and lay down next to her. For a moment, they lay still upon the wood, looking up at the painted ceiling and lost in their own thoughts.

Then she pulled down her skirts and stood up. She must needs work upon her hair before the feasting and on his face too... he could not be permitted to leave with such a look of such longing and desire on his face. If she could, she would have excused herself from the feast - she did not want him looking at her with desire in his eyes, not in front of them all - but she knew he would only follow her if she did not attend. Too many questions would be asked.

"Wash yourself," she bid him, sounding more like his mother than his lover. "I hope you will not look at me during the feasting." It was a vain hope, boys being as they were, but she could try.

"I won't," he said, sounding guilty. "And I'm sorry, my lady. Truly. I had no need what came over me, I..."

She gentled him as she would a nervous colt. He must never look upon what he did with her with shame, only with pleasure. "R'hllor made our bodies as well as our souls. He gave us voices, so we might worship Him with song. He gave us hands, so we might build Him temples. And He gave us desire, so we might mate and worship Him in that way."

He drifted over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "It seems wrong though," he said mutinously. "I want to show everyone how much I love you, how much I want you. I wish you could be my Queen, to rule by my side as you side. What do I need of some sickly northern girl, whom I must wed to please my father and hers? My father doesn't care about me and-"

 _R'hllor save me,_ she thought, gritting her teeth. "Hush," she said, stroking his cheek. "This is folly and you know it. Your path is marked for you as mine is for me. You are a prince of the blood and your duty is to the realm, to bear sons with a noble maiden. And..." Her voice trailed off and she let her fingers linger on his jaw. "You know I have seen things in the flames."

"You've never told me what," he pointed out. "Just things, you say, things about me." He trailed soft, slow kisses on her shoulder, his fingers fumbling at her bodice.

She stopped him. "Not now," she murmured, pressing a finger to his lips. "But if you are good, if you can prove yourself to be a man..." She smiled at him, a smile full of promises. "Can you?"

"Yes," he swore, very earnestly. "I can be a man. I'm almost one, you know."

 _No. You are little more than a child in truth._ "I will hold you to that," she said solemnly. "Perhaps I can share my secrets, what I have seen in the flames with you."

"Someday?" he prompted her.

"Soon," she said, turning around so that she stood in his arms and kissing him full on the lips. "Soon, my sweet prince."

* * *

It was the hour of moonrise. A fey palace shimmered in the glassy waters of the Sunset Sea, wrought all of silver and pearl. Its spires and airy turrets were spun of moonshine and dreams, its proud walls of alabaster. Limned in silver, the surf reached for the inky shore and from their casements, two women, both clad in red, looked down upon it.

The priestess rose and knelt before her flames, to dream sweeter dreams than those sleep could offer her.

The Queen rose and left her bed. She passed from her chamber, her footsteps echoing queerly in the silent stone corridors. There was a guard at the crown prince's door, a whitecloak sworn to protect him. He let her by without a word, she was his mother. What mother would wish her child ill?

 _I might have had a wise woman cleanse my womb,_ she thought. _Tansy tea to flush out the parasite. But I thought the babe was Jaime's._ She had been younger then, less cautious. When Robert Baratheon's son spilled forth, bawling, all the world had rejoiced that there was a prince in the cradle. Only his mother had grieved as for a child lost, for the son she had thought she had made with her brother. She had been more careful then and when she was certain that she was with child again, she had asked Jaime to bring her the tears of Lys.

But then her baby had looked up at her with Jaime's eyes, and smiled. Such a little thing. A little bird without feathers. She could not do it then, she had held him close to her and kissed him. She had thought she loved him but then Joffrey was born, her golden boy, and she knew that what she had felt for Robert's boy had been nothing. No man had ever made her feel as good as she had felt when Joff took her nipple in his mouth to nurse.

The boy was in his bed when she entered. She thought how easy it would be kill him in his sleep, to plunge a dagger straight through his heart. A clean death and quick. _It would be a mercy,_ she thought, her throat dry. She knew she could never do it herself but Jaime...

 _We will have to plan this most carefully,_ she thought, pondering how it might be done. _Any false step and they will ask questions._ Questions she could not answer with her three golden babes. _The wolfswood can be treacherous..._

"Mother," he mumbled sleepily. He opened his eyes and gave her a drowsy little smile. The curve of his cheek was silver in the moonlight and his emerald-green eyes pale and gold-flecked. "I dreamed of you."

"As I did of you," she lied. She caressed his cheek. "I had to see my baby."

Childishly, he flung his arms around her. "You've never come to see me when I was asleep, not since I was a baby," he told her. "Not like you go to Joff."

That was true. She would often sit by Joffrey and watch him fall asleep. It was pleasant for her, to sit in the darkness and look down upon his beautiful face, so peaceful and innocent as he slept. "I have," she lied, "but you have always been asleep, sweetling. And a king must be strong, he cannot cleave to his mother."

He acknowledged the truth of that in silence. "You're beautiful, mother," he said softly. And then, just like a little boy, "I've missed you."

So like a little boy that for a moment she felt the pang of guilt. But she buried that quickly under a laugh like the shattering of glass. Laughter was poison to guilt and guilt she could not afford to feel, she must not feel. _What is Robert Baratheon's heir to you?_ she told herself. _You have killed hundreds of them, what does it matter that you have let this one grow to manhood? You must be strong for Joffrey._

"You've missed me since I don't coddle you?" she said lightly, mockingly. "What an infant you are. Tommen is nine and Myrcella ten, of course I pet them and spoil them like children."

"And Joffrey is fourteen," Harry said mildly. "And you pet him still." He sat up, resting on his elbow, fully awake now. His voice was troubled as he said, "Mother you have to curb him. He's wild and willful and the things I hear he's up to-"

"Enough," Cersei said, her voice hard. Harry, meek as he was where his mother was concerned, quailed. "I will not have bad blood between my sons. It is unjust of you to say such things of your brother, Harrold. You are his elder and it is your place to love and cherish him."

"Just as Joffrey's place is to love and cherish Tommen," Harry said acidly. "He's been frightening him, Mother."

"Tommen must have done something to upset Joff then," Cersei said, quite certain that he was making it all up. _They are full brothers, why would Joff wish any ill upon Tommen? Likely it was Harry who did something to the boy and he lies to cover it up._ "I will speak to them. But it is not your place to interfere, I am their mother and I will see to them."

"And I am their brother," Harry said, for once standing up to her. "Their elder brother. Their king someday."

Cersei rose. She had heard enough. "As Your Highness wills it," she said icily.

At once, Harry was contrite. "Oh Mother," he said, reaching out for her, "I didn't mean to say that, not to you. I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn. Please-"

"Not at all," she said coolly. "You will be king someday, Your Highness. And I am only your mother, an old, washed-up woman. You reminded me quite rightly of that."

"Please Mother, I'm sorry," he said, sitting up. "Forgive me."

She relished that, to hear him beg like a dog. She would forgive him, in time - after he had learned his lesson. "There is nothing to forgive. Perhaps now you see why I do not like to linger at your bedside, when I will hear such harsh words, so undutifully spoken. You are more like your father than you think, Harrold." She curtseyed. "I will take your leave now, Your Highness." She swept away, her skirts flaring around her.

He had climbed out of bed, but he stood helplessly and watched her, not daring to run after her. At the door, he said softly, pleadingly, "Mother. Please stay."

She looked at him, one long, hard look and when it seemed that she would relent and go back to tell him that all was forgiven, she turned her face away. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

* * *

 


	2. The Princess from across the Narrow Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But flame on flame, and deep on deep,  
> Throne over throne where in half sleep,  
> Their swords upon their iron knees,  
> Brood her high lonely mysteries.
> 
> \- W.B Yeats

She was small for her years.

She was six-and-ten, a woman grown, but to Jon's eyes she still looked half a child. Bred as she had been all her life in the Free Cities, she was still dressed in the Pentoshi fashion - gilded sandals that laced up to her ankles, a stola of wispy lilac silk with fluted folds that left her arms bare. It was clasped at the shoulders by silver dragons with scales limned in onyx and caught at her slender hips with a girdle of moonstones. Her hair spilled in loose waves down her shoulders and back, sunlight and moonshine woven as one.

She had the beauty of the dragonlords of Old Valyria but all the fierceness of a mouse. On the window seat she huddled under a cloak sewn of many furs, and would not meet his eyes when he entered. From the window of her cabin he could see the ships moored upon Blackwater Bay.

Jon Arryn stood for a moment at the doorway, feeling like a ravisher who had chanced upon a helpless maid. Behind him, Stannis stood stiff as a spear and Littlefinger lounged. _The mailed fist and the silk glove,_ he thought. Never had the needs of the realm bred a stranger pair of bedfellows.

As he took in her measure, he was reminded most powerfully of another young girl - the child bride he had taken years ago at Riverrun. He had tried to be gentle with her as well, but he had no gift where maidens were concerned. His lady wife had quite drowned their marriage bed in her tears.

"Lady Daenerys," he began.

"Queen."

Her voice was as low as the whisper of leaves upon the forest floor. She hugged her cloak tighter around herself, still looking down at her little feet. But she had the courage to speak - or mumble, as it were.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn, trueborn daughter of Aerys and Rhaella, both of the House Targaryen. By rights, I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." She said this all mechanically, as though she had said it a hundred times. Perhaps she had. It was all the girl had left, what she thought of as her birthright though she had never set foot in Westeros.

The ship's captain, who had soothed her all through her voyage across the Narrow Sea, stepped forwards. Sighing, as though he was used to this, he said, "My lady, you forget yourself. You must not speak so in front of these eminent lords."

She jerked up her head and Jon could see that her eyes were red. The poor child had been weeping for her brother. "They are not eminent lords," she said fiercely. "They are the Usurper's dogs."

Stannis Baratheon could not control himself any longer. "You lost all rights to the Iron Throne when King Robert defeated King Aerys fifteen years ago," he told her. "It is only by courtesy that you are even addressed as the Lady Daenerys."

"He was an usurper," she said. But she said it very timidly. "He is no true king."

"He won his throne by conquest," Stannis corrected her. "As did your own ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror. It is now his by rights."

The child had nothing to say to that. She tucked one foot under the other. "You would not bring me all this way just to kill me," she said finally. "You killed my brother. Have you brought me here to show me off, to shame me and enslave me?"

"There are no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms, my lady," the captain told her patiently. "It is outlawed."

 _There are slaves everywhere,_ Jon thought wearily. _Some have chains you can see._

"Viserys Targaryen was killed for claiming to be King of the Seven Kingdoms," he told her. "A title to which he had no right. King Robert and his Small Council conferred long and hard amongst themselves as to that grave matter. Your brother died so that the realm might be at peace, my lady. I grieve for your loss but the good of millions must come before a sister's love."

There had been gold and a lordship in it and now Jorah Mormont, slaver and poacher as he was, was the Lord of Bear Island once more and of Harrenhal as well. _Perhaps even now he's racing to his wife in Braavos_ _,_ Jon thought. _To woo back his silver-haired Hightower whore with coin._ Ned had written to him of that nasty business and as one of their closest informants in the Free Cities, he had learned more than he cared to of the man's past.

It left a foul taste in Jon's mouth, this skulduggery and cloak-and-dagger business. It was not... it was not _honourable_. But it had to be done. Viserys Targaryen was a man grown and a threat to the realm, conspiring with the spice soldiers and cheese lords of the Free Cities. And of late there had been whispers of him taking up with the Dothraki, of a promise made to wed his young sister to the khal of ten thousand screamers...

Better that the snake's head be struck off before he could strike. But Daenerys Stormborn was a maiden, young and tractable.

As Tywin Lannister was oft heard to say, _There is a task for every tool and a tool for every task._

The girl gave a brittle laugh. "The dogs conferred. Indeed." She looked up at him and spoke out with a fury he would not have expected of her. "The falcon and the moon. I know you. The traitor, Jon Arryn. You sheltered the Usurper and that Stark who wanted to kill my brother, the noble Prince Rhaegar."

"He did," Jon said, not able to stop himself. "But only after your brother had defiled his sister, my lady. Lady Lyanna Stark died of the wounds Prince Rhaegar gave her, a young maid and innocent."

"She deserved it then."

Stannis opened his mouth but Jon spoke up. "My lady, you are weary. When you are fed and better rested, I shall call upon you to discuss such weighty matters of business as we have at hand."

She raised her chin up defiantly. "What weighty matters can you have to discuss with me?"

"Matters of alliance," he told her. "A marriage."

She stared at him for one long moment before she understood what it meant. Then she started to cry. "No. No. I was to marry Viserys, I was to be his queen..."  
Queen you shall be, Jon thought wearily. If we can shape you to it. Robert had three boys, but he knew which of them it would be best to marry the last of the dragons to. He bowed very courteously to her, thinking it best if he took his leave of her. She was such a small, shrunken thing, hiding under that great cloak, he could only pity her.

"Lord Baelish will see you to your apartments in the Red Keep," he said. "You will be pleased to know that you are being kept in your lady mother's old chambers at Maegor's Holdfast."

 _The best guarded and most closely kept,_ he thought. "Be gentle with her," he murmured to Littlefinger, as he stepped aside.

Littlefinger's smile was sunny. "I keep a brothel, Lord Arryn," he said, very primly. "I know how to gentle wild fillies that will soon be mounted."

* * *

His lordship had sent for her.

It was not often that Ros was called to the castle, indeed she could count the number of times she had been summoned there on one hand. Twice to service His Grace himself, once to attend the Imp and once more for a doddering old lord who could scarce climb out of bed. There was a place for whores and it was far from the eyes of the lady wives.

But today it seemed, she would not be pandering to her usual clientele.

"You're to play serving wench," Lord Littlefinger told her, handing her a linen smock and tunic as a lady's maid might don. "You and Armeca and that pretty, sweet child Mhaegen."

"Roleplay?" she asked, giggling. She slid the rings off her fingers and ears and unbuckled her girdle. Her diaphanous gown of rose-colored silk slid to her feet and she handed her trinkets and baubles to him. "There's some who like to see me dressed up. I've been a septa and a warrior maid more times than I can count, but there was one who wanted me to play the silent sister for him. Gagged me he did."

He ignored her chatter. He was measuring her as he always did the women of his brothel, as he always did everyone really, with the coolly impartial but keen eyes of a connoisseur. "You are growing fat, my dear," he said, the faintest hint of reprimand in his tone. He reached out to slide his fingers over her belly.

"The men seem to like it," she shot back. She patted her ample breasts and smirked at him as she pulled the tunic over her head. "As long as they pay up, who's to say I'm too fat?"

"As you will, my dear girl." He studied her and then smiled warmly. "How many years has it been, Ros?"

"Since what, m'lord?" She did not like the feel of the homely roughspun on her back, it reminded her too much of the sackcloth that she had worn as a child. These days she wore smallcloths of linen and lace and gowns of silk and samite.

He spread his arms out. "Why since you've been a maid of course, pure and sweet. I will need you to attend one today."

She had to stop to think about it. "Me pa had me when I was ten, before I'd had my blood. Me stepma didn't like that, she knew it was happening but she never said a word to him. She took it out on me though, she was always a'swearing that I was more trouble than I was worth, said she'd knock it out of me but she never could." _Though she tried her best, with pots and pans and the boiling kettle at the end._ She still had the scars to prove it, a burnt leaf on the smooth skin of her left thigh. "Twas a hard winter when I was twelve and they sold me for bread for the little ones."

"You were the eldest?"

She nodded. _Small Paul who was so big, Beth and Dara and Elmer still at stepma's teat._ The last time she had seen them, their lips were blue from the cold, their faces white and strained from hunger. The trees had been silver that day, the village so pure and pretty in the snow that reached up to her knees, that day the man who'd bought her bundled her up in the cart. She'd taken one last look at her stepmother, standing with Elmer in her arms and mantled in hatred, and never looked back. She hadn't even cried, not for many moons after.

 _They never wanted me, none of them._ At least here she was wanted. Needed even, by all the lost little girls they brought to the whorehouse and who she had to train and look after for the first few months. Needed by Lord Littlefinger himself.

"I wound up here eventually," she said indifferently. "Everyone seems to."

He shook his head. "Only the cleverest. No one ever winds up as high as you have. You made your way up here." He smiled at her almost admiringly. "Just like me."

It was true, she thought. She'd made her way up to King's Landing just as he'd said, she'd made her way from roughspun shifts and fucking pigboys at the crossroads inns to jeweled girdles and gold from the King's own hand. _Sows and silk purses._ "I've been in King's Landing ten years now I'd reckon."

"And you are lovelier now than you ever were as a virgin," he said and kissed her hand. "You are like the finest wine, Ros. Age only serves to improve you."

She giggled. "M'lord's too gallant. What will your lady say should she hear?"

"You know I'm not wed." He looked terribly amused. "How do you know that I have a lady of his own?"

She smiled innocently at him. "Your lordship's trained me well, is all."

He nodded in approval. "Good girl. And now I will need you to keep all your wits about you today. You're to serve the Lady Daenerys today. You'll attend her as her maid. Win her trust, win her goodwill - she is only a child and grieving for her brother, poor little thing. She will be longing for a friend, even if she does not know it herself. You'll have Armeca and Mhaegen to help you. Armeca plays the fool, she pretends that she cannot speak a word of the Common Tongue and Mheagen is so young and fresh-faced that no one would ever suspect her. They are your tools. Share your stories with the girl so that she might share hers with you, take her measure, note how far she will bend before she breaks. Report it all to, and only to, me."

"You can trust me, m'lord." She was used to doing this for him, she was proud of being his right hand. But she'd never heard of any Lady Daenerys. "Who's she?" Ros asked curiously. "She's highborn and a maiden, you say. A mistress for the King?" There were enough great houses who'd be willing to sell their daughters, barter them as pawns in the high lords' game of thrones. Eager even.

 _Poor pretty little maid,_ she thought, with a twinge of sympathy for the girl she hadn't even seen yet. _Your septa taught you to be a lady but now your pa tells you that you're to spread your legs for the good of the family. You'll weep and wail but you'll do as you're bid. In the end you're just another whore, just like me._

"Better," his lordship told her. His smile cut like a knife. "A dragon."

* * *

The latticework tracery was as fine and airy as whitework embroidery, a confectioner's dream but stone in place of sugar. It was crocheted with stars and wheels, flowers and leaves, birds and beasts and inlaid with lapis and mother-of-pearl. The Red Keep was Maegor the Cruel's fantasy in sandstone, a warren crisscrossed with spyholes and secret passageways. In his queens' chambers the walls were not true walls but carved screens through which it was his pleasure to keep an eye on them.

 _Only the blood of the dragon will ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built,_ he had vowed on the day he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Even now, some three hundred years later, no spider had claimed that he had truly unraveled the web. But not for lack of trying.

Of late these apartments of state had seen little use. Queen Cersei had chosen, for some inexplicable reason of her own to lodge in the Princess Elia's rooms and so for the present Daenerys Targaryen would sleep in the room her ill-fated mother had slept in.

It was a well-known secret, the passageways behind the walls of the queens' chambers. Queen Rhaella had had them boarded up and would frequently check on them to make sure. But today the boards had been knocked down for her daughter's arrival. Petyr had taken her there himself, asking her to watch for him. And so Lysa of House Tully put her eye to a perforation in the carved wall and watched.

The Targaryen girl stood on the balcony, looking out over the city. Lysa wondered what the self-proclaimed queen thought of her city, of the castle she had seen only in her dreams.

There were three maids filling a tub with ewers of boiling hot water. Whores really, handpicked by Petyr. Steam rose from the bath and with a sigh the girl drifted into the room. Quietly, she began to undo the clasps and girdle that held up her eastern gown. It slid to her feet with a rustle of silk and she stepped calmly into the bath.

"My lady, it's too hot for you," one of the women, the redhead, said in alarm.

But the girl seemed at ease. "It's never too hot," she murmured, almost too faintly for Lysa to make out. "Not for me."

The dusky woman with the long black hair threw a look at the fair-haired little one. Then she rose to scrub the girl's back with a bar of sweet-smelling soap. The other one busied herself folding the girl's old gown and bringing out the new one she was to wear.

Lysa observed the Targaryen girl. _Her face is fair enough,_ she was forced to admit, _and no one could forget those eyes._ But as her lord husband had told her, she was as small and slight as a child, a bird-boned creature with narrow hips and tiny breasts. She had the famed silver-gold hair that was true enough - but then so did half the whores in Lys. For her part, Lysa did not think much of that insipid coloring, faded and washed-out. She did not think much of the girl's beauty either, though fools would have been quick to name her the fairest woman in all the world.

But then the world was full of fools looking to curry favor.

 _At her age I was magnificent,_ Lysa thought, remembering herself at sixteen. _Jon could not keep his hands off me, the filthy old lecher, though he masked it as honor and duty._

She had been tall and slender as a young willow tree, with the deep blue eyes and rich auburn hair of the Tullys. _Fire in my hair,_ she thought, smiling as she remembered all the minstrels who would pay tribute to her when she was the Hand's young bride, new-come to King's Landing. _Eyes brimmed with laughter. Lips made for kisses, though I was never kissed as I should have been._

Years of miscarriages and childbearing had slackened her figure, dulled the sheen of her hair and drawn harsh lines on her ivory skin. Years of sorrow had changed the laughter in her eyes to tears and now her lips were made more for pouring venom than for sweet kisses.

But once she had been radiant. Once she had been one of the loveliest women in all the realm. _As fair as Cersei Lannister,_ she thought. _And certainly fairer, far fairer, than Cat._ Ah, her sister. How she did not miss her.

The fair-haired one had begun to prattle. She was talking about her new baby. "...Hair as fine as black silk," she was saying, "it flows through your hands like water, it does. And her eyes, oh her eyes are as blue as mountain lakes."

The redhead giggled. "Have you turned into a poet, Mheagen? Have those sweetmeats who're always scribbling to you finally got to you?"

"No," Mheagen said, smiling warmly. "It's my little Barra, that's who's gotten to me. Oh you don't know how sweet it is, Ros, not till you've nursed one of your own at the breast."

"She sounds beautiful," said Ros. "But I'd rather suckle a lord with a full purse." She turned her face to the Targaryen girl and asked innocently, "Do you want a babe of your own, m'lady? Someday?"

For a while, the girl said nothing. She tipped her head back and let the black-haired girl soap her hair. Then she said, "A son. Strong and stalwart."

_Dragonspawn. You would spew your venom into his ears and bid the years, waiting and hating as your brother waited and hated._

"Not a daughter as beautiful as yourself?" Ros asked curiously. "M'lady, you're the fairest woman I've ever seen in my life."

Lysa almost laughed out loud. _Oh really._

Daenerys Targaryen shook her head. Her voice was hollow as said, "Beauty can be a curse. And there's only one thing a daughter's good for. Wifing. Whoring." She shrugged one slim shoulder, as though they were the same thing. She trailed her hand through the water and said, "Do you know who I am?"

Ros shook her head. "Lord Baelish sent us to serve you," she said. "He told us you were a noble lady, new-come to the city. He said you'd traveled a long way."

"It was a long voyage, yes." Her face was drawn with suffering. "You did not think to ask him?"

Ros smiled. "M'lady, no one ever thinks to question Lord Baelish. They just do as they're told."

"Is he so fearsome? He seemed most amiable."

Ros hesitated. "He's a dear, sweet man," she said presently. "I've worked for him long years, m'lady. He's soft-spoken. Gentle like. He's good and generous to those who've earned his trust. But there's steel in him too. You don't cross Lord Baelish."

"I see."

 _No you don't,_ Lysa thought dismissively. _You're only a little girl. He'll play you as he does everyone else._ He was so clever, her Petyr. There wasn't a greater man in all the Seven Kingdoms.

"Begging m'lady's pardon," Mheagen said shyly, "but who are you?"

The black-haired girl helped her up. For a moment she stood, naked and glistening with beads of water, young and vulnerable and utterly desirable. She was pale as alabaster, a girl of marble and moonshine and not flesh and blood. _Her blood is fire,_ Lysa thought with a jolt. _Now she is as helpless as a naked, newborn babe but someday she will burn us all down._

Then the maids began to towel her dry. They helped her into a gown of white Myrish lace, the cut and style of it clearly unfamiliar to the Targaryen girl. In her ears they put amethyst drops to match her eyes. They brushed out her hair before a looking-glass with a frame of silver-and-ebony and braided it into one of the elaborate court styles.

 _Once her mother would set the fashions,_ Lysa remembered. _And Cersei Lannister would follow. Now it is the lioness who leads and the dragon who must follow._

It was only after they were done with her that Daenerys Targaryen finally turned to Mheagen. "Nothing," she said softly. "I am nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added the mandatory Ros scenes. Can anyone please tell me what the point of her character is? For the purpose of the story, I've had her live in King's Landing for many years, I think she was already associated with Littlefinger's brothel from before anyway. Also Lysa totally seems like the type of person to spy on other people - and if it's in Littlefinger's interests, all the better. I've had Daenerys dress in a stola, a Roman fashion, since it's similar to the gown she wore in Pentos.


	3. The Northman's Daughter

_"I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart," she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic._

**\- A Game of Thrones**

* * *

Sansa curled up in the furs and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to savor her dream for a little while longer. It had been so sweet...

But it was too late.

"The very idea of a young lady traipsing to the stables at this hour!" she could hear Septa Mordane roaring. "Without a proper escort, like a... a gutter-spawn! For shame, Arya, are you not old enough to know better?"

 _Arya_. Of course it was Arya. It was always Arya.

Groaning, Sansa threw back the coverlets, knowing that it would be impossible to get any sleep with such a storm brewing. She slipped her feet into the warm doeskin slippers that her maid had left toasting before the fire and pattered to the bedroom door. As she had expected, her septa and her sister were going at. Septa Mordane was almost purple with fury and Arya's face was as dark and sullen as a stormcloud.

Seeing her at the doorway, Septa Mordane turned on her with a fury. "And you, Sansa! How could you not wake up with your sister slipped out? It is your responsibility as her elder to instruct her in her duties, not aid and abate her!"

"I did not," Sansa said, wounded. "I was asleep. " She glared at Arya. It was _just_ like her to get Sansa into trouble too. "Gods Arya, there's no need to trot to the stables and the horses at the crack of dawn everyday. If all you want is to see your face, you're quite welcome to borrow my looking glass."

Without a word, Arya stormed into the bedroom and banged the door shut like a child. Sansa raised her eyes heavenward.

"What was she doing with that great big stick?" Septa Mordane wanted to know, as though Sansa could have any idea.

"Playing at being knights with a butcher's boy or stablehand no doubt," Sansa said, disinterested. "Will we be breaking our fast with my lady mother today?"

"No, she is busy enough today," Septa Mordane said with a significant look. "But she will come in to your chambers at noon to see you two properly dressed. Today is a very special day, you know."

Sansa knew too well. She had been looking forward to today for weeks, ever since they had the news that the king and his court were coming to Winterfell. Even now she could feel that queer, funny feeling fluttering in the pit of her stomach - like butterflies.

"Its harder to wash Arya than it is Nymeria," Sansa observed. "But she will need to take a bath. I hope she does nothing to spoil today." But that was hardly in Arya's nature. She had the unique and awe-inspiring ability to spoil _anything._

"Right you are, Sansa," Septa Mordane said, thinking that her life was one trial after another. She was Riverlands born and bred but Lord Tully had sent her to Lady Catelyn when his granddaughters were toddlers. Sansa was a sweet child but Arya was a holy at Winterfell might be more luxurious than at the sept and she would have been very happy... but for Arya. _If I were her mother I would have sent her to the Silent Sisters long ago._

And so Sansa broke her fast with Jeyne. They were shooed out of the kitchens where preparations were already underway for the night's great feast. So they took their bread and honeycombs up to the loggia, from where they could keep an eye on the archery yard. Jeyne had insisted - she was more than passing fond of Theon Greyjoy and it was her delight to watch him at his marksmanship.

Sansa did not think much of him but Jeyne was her best friend. Sometimes she wished Jeyne was her sister, not Arya.

But Theon Greyjoy was not in the yard so Sansa had time to tell Jeyne about her dream.

"It was another of those flying dreams," she told her solemnly. "It was so very lovely, for I was flying high in the air and I could hear the cheers of a thousand people beneath me. I wore a cape of red and gold, sewn with a lion and I was on a quest for a golden ball. Sometimes I could see it but I never caught it, it would always fly away from me no matter how I pursued it. What do you think that means?"

Jeyne, who had heard enough of her flying dreams was not interested. "Red and gold, you say?" she said. "And a lion? It must have something to do with Lannisters. Mayhap you were unsettled and overstrung because they are coming today."

Sansa didn't think it had anything at all to do with the Lannisters but she had to admit that it sounded like it did. "Perhaps," she said cautiously.

"Dreams come true," Jeyne told her solemnly.

Sansa nodded and agreed.

"Perhaps," Jeyne said slyly, "Perhaps your dream means that you are to be wed to a Lannister!" She burst out giggling, as though she had said a very clever thing.

"That is for my lord father to decide," Sansa said primly. She turned away, not liking the way Jeyne had mangled her dream. It had had nothing to do with marriage, it had been so pure and perfect, like a piece of her life that she had forgotten for too long and had just now remembered... ever since she could remember she had had dreams like these. Special dreams, but she took care never to tell anyone but Mother or Jeyne. The others would only laugh at her.

Sensing that she had someone hurt her friend's feelings, Jeyne laid a contrite hand on Sansa's shoulder. "Is that all you remember of your dream? It sounds fascinating."

"I would have," Sansa said resentfully, "if Arya hadn't woken me up quite so suddenly, fussing like that with Septa Mordane. She's such a little beast sometimes." She chewed her lip and tried to remember. "There was a castle," she said at last. "A great castle, quite as big as Winterfell, and it was snowing. Owls, there were owls too..."

She didn't remember how the owls had come in but they had. She shook her head to clear it. It was only a dream, she must not let it disturb her so. Today was a very exciting day.

"Come on," she told Jeyne, "I don't think Theon will be coming in to practice today. We might as well look through our gowns and see what we should wear tonight."

"But-" Jeyne hesitated, clearly torn.

"I'll let you wear my enameled brooch," Sansa said persuasively. "Come now, Jeyne."

* * *

"Gods be good, girl, it'd be easier to brush your hair with a hoe than a comb!" Septa Mordane and Arya. Again.

Sansa sighed and snapped an earring on. The earring was a Tully trout of pure silver, with scales enameled in red and blue and tiny sapphire eyes.

Lady Catelyn had summoned her daughters to her chambers to see to their dressing herself, just before the feast. She had a bronzed mirror from the Free Cities in her room, as tall as a man, and when Sansa looked into it she could see all of herself.

Her slippers were of silk with high scarlet heels that added at least three inches to her height. She wore one of her mother's grand gowns, cut down to her size. It was of cloth-of-silver sewn in gold thread with all manner of flowers and birds, the petals and feathers broidered with seed pearls. The sleeves were long and when she lowered her arms brushed her hem - they were lined with scarlet satin and trimmed with vair.

On her wrist she wore a bangle that her father had given her on her last nameday. It was of entwining roses, carved from sapphires, their leaves wrought of diamonds. It had been her Aunt Lyanna's when she was a girl.

At her side, Jeyne gushed. "The sapphires match your eyes so well. How beautiful you look, Sansa."

"Mother brought them from Riverrun when she was married," Sansa told her friend, basking complaisantly. She cast her eyes quickly over Jeyne who looked pretty enough in her gown of rose-pink and ivory wool, with blush-roses in her soft curls. Flowers and lambswool would serve well enough for a steward's daughter.

Jeyne leaned forward and Sansa, sensing that she had good gossip, turned so that her mother and septa would not hear. "Prince Harrold seemed most taken by you," she murmured, "when you were introduced. I saw how he looked at your hair! And I heard mother saying to father something about you flowering in a year or two, being old enough for a betrothal and the princes here..."

Sansa's forced herself to take shallower breaths though her heart was racing. "That is not for me to say," she said carefully. She turned to her mother to ask her how she looked but Lady Catelyn had turned her attention to her younger daughter.

"I'll brush her hair, septa," Lady Catelyn said. "Sit still a moment, Arya, and I will do it as quickly as I can."

Arya was in her prettiest gown, a grey velvet with a girdle of moonstones at her narrow hips and a chain of silver at her throat. She had openly rebelled when Septa Mordane had tried to squeeze her feet into a fashionable but tight pair of slippers and Lady Catelyn had finally permitted her to wear her old leather shoes.

"No one will notice her feet if we let the hem down," Lady Catelyn said practically. "As it is, they will scarcely look at the child at all."

Sansa loved it when her mother brushed her hair, she often dismissed the maid so she could do it herself. She looked on enviously while Lady Catelyn brushed through the tangles of Arya's hair, murmuring soothingly when Arya winced.

"You'd have such lovely hair, child," Lady Catelyn said gently, "if you didn't do your best to dirty it, riding and roughhousing with your brothers. And you must let it grow."

"Its ugly," Arya said rebelliously and Sansa had to agree. "Its plain and drab. Its not a nice color, not like Sansa's."

"Like a horse's mane," Jeyne whispered and Sansa stifled a giggle.

"No," Lady Catelyn said, "it brings to mind your Aunt Lyanna's. Your father says so too, indeed you look very like her when she was your age."

"Lyanna was beautiful," Arya said, just as startled as Sansa. Everybody said so. It was not a thing that was ever said of Arya.

"She was beautiful," Lady Catelyn agreed, "and so will you be when you are a woman grown. Give yourself a few years and you will be just as lovely as your sister."

Sansa did not like where this was going. "Mother," she interrupted, "how do I look, please?"

As ever, Lady Catelyn's face burst into a radiant smile as she observed her elder daughter. "Magnificent, as always. Twirl for me, sweetling."

So Sansa did, giggling as she twirled on the points of her dainty slippers, her skirts flaring around her. Arya screwed up her face. "You'll probably trip and fall on your face wearing those heels," she said triumphantly. "Probably when you're dancing with the prince. And then he'll laugh fit to kill at you."

"I will not," Sansa said indignantly. " _You_ would but then I am ever so much more graceful than you."

"Girls, don't fight."

"You would because you'd be nervous dancing with him. You're sweet on the prince, I saw the way you looked at him when we were introduced-"

"You will say anything, won't you, Arya? Mother, tell her to-"

"Hush, both of you," Lady Catelyn said irritably. She turned to Arya. "And which prince did you think your sister was 'sweet on', as you call it? There are three of them."

"The oldest one," Arya said triumphantly. "Prince Harrold. You think I have mashed lard for brains but I see a lot more than you do, Sansa."

Sansa could feel a betraying blush rising on her face and she turned quickly away - but not quickly enough to escape her mother's notice. "I'm not sweet on _anyone_ ," Sansa wailed. "Its not true, Mother-"

Lady Catelyn heaved a sigh and looked at Septa Mordane. But her voice was not cross at all, only amused, when she said, "Daughters. How quickly they grow."

* * *

She felt as though she had been dancing only a moment, that she could dance a thousand years more and never tire when her lady mother called her to her side.

"Goodness child, how flushed you are," she said, putting her hand to Sansa's hot forehead and beckoning her to sit next to her.

"Oh mother, please do let me dance," Sansa pleaded.

"Certainly not!" Lady Catelyn said, laughing even as she pretended to scold her. "You've been dancing this past hour, you haven't missed a single one yet. It will do you no harm to sit a while with me and Her Grace." She turned to the Queen with a sigh of mock exasperation, "I fear she will wear out her slippers in this one night, just as the twelve princesses in the fable did."

Queen Cersei inclined her head a fraction of an inch. She was beautiful to look at, but cold Sansa thought. More like an ice sculpture than a lioness. "What a hardy girl you are," she said coolly, somehow contriving to make Sansa's healthy enjoyment and vigor seem common and vulgar. "A true northman's daughter."

Lady Catelyn's polite smile never wavered. "Indeed, I should hope that she is hardy," she said smoothly. "She will bear children more easily because of it. I have had five myself and I expect to have at least five more, for Lord Eddard and I are young as yet." She sighed softly. "How terribly it must have cut Your Grace when you were too... damaged to carry a living child to term, after Prince Tommem's birth. Four heirs is not nearly enough for a king and for such a vigorous man as His Grace..."

She stroked Sansa's hair gently. "Have you danced with the whole court, sweetling?" she teased her. "You have ensnared all of Her Grace's sons I am sure and that Cerwyn boy and the King's squires..."

"What a pretty child you are," Queen Cersei murmured. "My Joff and Harry seemed most taken by your... charms, sweetling. Which do you favor more?"

Lady Catelyn's hand on Sansa's hair clenched painfully. It was a loaded question, Sansa could sense, though she did not know why. So she answered very carefully, casting her eyes demurely down to the ground. "I cannot say, Your Grace, for they both seemed most gallant and handsome to me." They had at that - Prince Joffrey was his mother's golden lion cub while Prince Harrold was cast in the mold of the Baratheons, dark and comely.

She cast a quick glance at her mother. The satisfied smile, almost threatening to turn into a smirk, on Lady Catelyn's face assured her that she had. _A lady may be known by her courtesy, discretion and grace even in the face of odds._

Sansa's slippered foot tapped restlessly to the beat of the music. "Pardon me, but might I have leave to take a breath of fresh air?" she asked.

Before her mother could reply, Queen Cersei smiled and said sweetly, "Yes child, run along now. You might catch up with Harry outside - he stepped out but a moment ago for the same purpose."

"Take Jeyne with you," Lady Catelyn told her but she let her go all the same.

Heart dancing, Sansa sped to call her friend. Jeyne, who had just finished dancing with Torrhen Karstark, was pouting petulantly. "Theon never thought to ask me," she wailed, obviously deeply hurt. "He's danced with _every_ girl in the room but me and he danced with that _dreadful_ Swyft girl, one of the Queen's ladies, twice and she looks like a pig."

"I'm sure he thought you were too busy to care for a dance with him," Sansa tried to console her. _No its not that, he just danced want to entangle himself with a moonstruck little girl._ "You've hardly stopped dancing all evening and I've seen my Cousin Karstark casting sheep's eyes at you. A breath of fresh air will do you good."

The girls threw on their cloaks - serviceable broadcloth for Jeyne, forest-green velvet edged with vair for Sansa - and slipped outside. The yard was cold and still, flecks of snow falling like feathers. Inside there was meat and mead for all, warmth and women, why should anyone care to leave it except the poor sentries on guard?

"Her Grace told me that Prince Harrold had stepped out," Sansa told Jeyne. "Perhaps we might ask a sentry where he went?"

But that did not prove necessary. Sansa caught sight of her bastard half-brother. "Jon," she called out and Jon Snow turned around. He had been talking with the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, she saw. Remembering her courtesies, Sansa dipped into a small curtsey for Tyrion Lannister was the Queen's own brother and heir by law to Casterly Rock. _Though whether he will ever be lord is another matter._

"Pardon me, but have either of you seen Prince Harrold?" she asked.

A smile crawled up the Imp's brutish face, a smile that made her uncomfortable. "My gallant nephew passed by just a moment ago," he said dryly. "For a breath of fresh air. A _private_ one, I do believe." He waved a hand airily to the right and smiled at Jon Snow. "Remember what I said, bastard. Now perhaps I should take my leave - it is not often that I am permitted the chance to escort two such lovely maidens. My ladies?"

Sansa took a quick decision. "Jeyne will go with you," she said, "I have something to say to my brother."

Tyrion Lannister hesitated for a moment and then shrugged as though it was none of his business. "As you wish, Lady Sansa. Lady Jeyne?"

Jeyne had no choice but to take the Imp's arm and allow him to waddle inside with her. Sansa made sure that they had left before turning to Jon.

"Did Father send you?" Jon asked eagerly.

Sansa shook her head. "No one sent me," she said evenly. "I knew he was lying though I don't know why he would. But you must've seen Prince Harrold pass this way, haven't you? Please tell me where he went, I... I would just like a word with him." She could feel herself blushing as she said this but hoped the darkness masked her face.

"He's too clever by half," Jon Snow said, eyes narrowing. "I saw the prince go by to the right, up along those stairs. He seemed in a hurry, I don't know whether he would have time to have a word with you. Perhaps you might wait inside for him? He'll come inside by and by."

"I'll just take a walk on the battlements," Sansa said quickly, "I need a breath of fresh air."

Jon didn't look as though he believed her. "Should I wait for you?" he offered.

Sansa shook her head. "Oh no," she said, "its too cold. You ought to go in, really." She hesitated a moment and then decided to sweeten her words. "You could ask Jeyne for a dance," she suggested. "She's shy but she thinks you very handsome, really ever so much better-looking than Theon or Robb."

As she had hoped, Jon's chest swelled with pride. "Did she say so to you?"

"Yes, a great many times," Sansa said, the lie falling easily. "Whenever you fence with Robb, you're so much more skilled than him."

Jon smiled, shy and eager at once. "I'll ask her. Tell me again what I should say to her, Sansa?"

Sansa had coached him carefully many times on what to say to please a lady. "Tell her that her eyes are beautiful and that you think she has the sweetest name you ever heard, that its like music on your lips to call her by her name," she said. "Now go and ask her quickly before someone else does - before that beastly Imp."

Jon chuckled and left. _It would be a lovely match,_ Sansa thought, climbing up the stairs to where she thought the prince was. Poor Jeyne's only dowry was her pretty face and Jon, though he was baseborn, was Lord _Stark's_ bastard. He would be lord of a holdfast in his own right by and by, Father would see to that, and really Jeyne could never hope to be the lady of a castle in her own right unless she married Jon. The best she might hope for elsewise might be a well-to-do merchant who wished to marry up, a landed knight or a third or fourth son from a minor noble house.

Smiling as she imagined how she might help Jeyne dress on her wedding day, what their babies would be named, Sansa was quite lost in her own fantasies. Voices cut through the cold air, clear and sharp. She had not meant to eavesdrop, but she could not help hearing.

"...it was one of those dreams. The old one in the hall with the shards of glass strewn on the floor and the voices beyond the veil." That was the prince's voice. Sansa hesitated, torn between whether to flee or boldly announce herself. Before she could make up her mind, she heard another voice she could not identify, hoarse and smoky.

"R'hllor's token by which you may know that He has chosen _you_. The night is dark and full of terrors but you are the prince that the Lord of Light has promised to the world."

Silence fell and the minutes ticked by. Sansa stood awkwardly where she was. _He has finished talking,_ she thought finally, full of hope. The prince had sounded as though he had had a most terrible dream. Perhaps Sansa could tell him of her own dreams, dark and bright by turns. _Those_ dreams. They had plagued her ever since she could remember, alternately leaving her sickened or exultant.

She stepped forwards and then stopped abruptly. She caught a flicker of red, a woman's cloak and flaming hair. The tall woman had her back to her, her arms were wrapped around the prince in his cloth-of-gold cloak and they were, why they were kissing! They were as close as lovers, his hand in her hair and at the curve of her waist, she murmuring in his ear, he moaning softly in pleasure. He began to suck on her neck and she arched her back with a soft cry of desire.

"Oh my love, my sweet love..."

Sansa felt as though she might throw up, violently sick, she felt such a fool, a child...

Pressing her hand to her mouth to muffle her sobs, she slipped away, the tears streaming silently down her cold cheeks.

* * *

Sansa was as silent as a sheep being dressed for slaughter, as her mother brushed her hair.

"Soon you'll be pinning it in the southron styles like the queen," Lady Catelyn said fondly, "or perhaps you will set your own fashions at King's Landing now that you are to be the second lady at court."

Sansa bit her lip and nodded. She had not the heart to say anything and her mother, lost in her own dreams of her daughter's glory, prattled on blithely. The betrothal had been announced at the banquet, of Harrold Baratheon and Sansa Stark.

"I was a year older than you when I was betrothed," she said, "to your father's elder brother as you know, at first. We were to be wed when I was six-and-ten. Brandon wooed me most tenderly with flowers and stories whenever he came to Riverrun and his letters brought him alive to me when we were parted. How happy you two will be, my sweet, you like him and he adores you, I saw it in his eyes."

"Did you like my Uncle Brandon?" Sansa whispered. "When you first saw him?"

Her mother set down the hairbrush thoughtfully. "Truth be told I was frightened of him," she admitted. "He was a man grown and I was only twelve, still a child. But I knew my duty and if my lord father had given my hand to Aerys the Mad himself, I would not have failed in my duty." She smiled and kissed Sansa's forehead. "But your father and I wish a different future for our children, we wish to see you happy above all. And you will be happy in the prince and he in you, I can see it."

"And you are very happy with the prince," Sansa said slowly, "and it is a very great match for me."

"The very greatest," Lady Catelyn said and then she frowned slightly. "What ails you, child? You seem... unsettled."

"Oh no," Sansa assured her quickly, "no I am very, very happy. I was just thinking of father and... my bastard brother. Do you think it possible that Prince Harrold, well he seems most honorable, but might he..."

Lady Catelyn began to plait her hair. "He's half a boy still," she said practically. "He might be Robert Baratheon's heir but I do not believe that the sins of the father are visited on the son. Men might have their dalliances but that is nothing for their lady wives to concern themselves with. And I do not believe for a moment that your betrothed would forget his promise to sire a bastard and bring shame to you. He loves you, that is plain to be seen. Now off to bed and may you have the sweetest dreams that ever visited a pure-hearted child for tonight should be one of the happiest in your life."

Her smile indicated that she assumed her daughter would dream of her betrothed that night.

 _He might change,_ Sansa thought as she took a candle to her bedchamber. She slipped into the furs, beside Arya who was snoring lightly in her sleep. _I will make him change, for love of me._

She closed her eyes hoping to have one of her flying dreams but that night she had a terrible dream of books and basilisks and a boy who's blood was black ink.

**Author's Note:**

> So what do you think of this? It was just a random idea of mine, sort of crossing the Game of Thrones idea with a Harry Potter-ish idea - black hair, green eyes, associated with stags and lions, the idea of the Chosen One and a fetish for red-haired women...
> 
> According to the TV series, all the characters have been aged up by 2 to 3 years so here are the ages:
> 
> Robb: 17
> 
> Daenerys: 16
> 
> Harrold: 15
> 
> Joffrey: 14
> 
> Sansa: 13
> 
> Arya: 11
> 
> Myrcella: 10
> 
> Bran, Tommen: 9


End file.
